Monday Mourning

“Why did Parent come in as a mort suspecte?”

“My guess would be the death looked suspicious.”

“You’re a laugh riot, Ryan.”

“Vic was in good health, not that old. No malfunctioning space heater. No leaking gas or carbon monoxide. No history of depression. No suicide note. Vic’s sixty-four-year-old sister’s in the wind. Disappeared. Candiac cops thought it called for a look-see by the big boys.”

“LaManche is doing the autopsy this morning.”

I pictured Ryan shoulder-cradling the phone, ankles crossed on his desk.

I pictured Ryan lying in my bed.

I pictured Ryan strutting with a prom queen.

“Vic’s niece found the body. Claims it’s out of character for her mother to take off without telling her.”

“Rose Fisher.”

I heard paper rustle.

“Bingo.”

“You’re trying to locate her?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Who’s Alban Fisher?”

Hitch of hesitation. “I can find out. Why?”

“Remember the woman who phoned about the pizza parlor skeletons?”

“Yes.”

“Remember I thought her name was Ballant or Gallant or something like that?”

“Yes.”

“Both calls came from Rose Fisher’s house in Candiac.”

“Parent.”

“Sounds similar over a bad connection.”

“The phone account’s in the name of Alban Fisher?” Ryan guessed.

“Yes.”

“Alban in the directory?”

“Hold on.”

I laid down the receiver, pulled out the phone book, and thumbed to the F’s. Sometimes detecting doesn’t take much genius. Alban Fisher was listed at the Candiac address.

“He’s there.”

“The niece didn’t put anyone else in the picture. Said the women lived alone. I’ll give her a call.”

“I’ll get back to you when LaManche finishes.”

“Could be a simple heart attack.”

“Could be.”

“Happens all the time.”

“Second leading cause of death.”

“You sure the ticker isn’t numero uno?”

“No.”

“Anything else breaking?”

“Actually, yes.”

I told him about the forged button. He asked what it meant. I told him I hadn’t a clue.

Then I told him about Nicolò Cataneo.

There was a pause, after which Ryan’s voice sounded different. Harder, somehow.

“I don’t like the sound of that, Tempe. Wiseguys value life about as much as they value used dental floss. You watch your back.”

“I always do.”

“Window fixed?”

“Yes.”

“I missed you this weekend.”

“Did you?”

“Your friend still there?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll talk when she’s gone.”

“Anne doesn’t bite.”

Long pause. Ryan broke it.

“Let me know what LaManche says. Page me if I’m out.”

Before launching into my analysis of the third skeleton, I made a detour to the main autopsy room. Pelletier had the first of the crack twins on table one. LaManche had Louise Parent on table two.

Parent had arrived wearing a granny gown. The long flannel nightie lay spread on the counter. Red roses on pink. Lace-trimmed yoke with tiny pearl buttons.

Flashbulb memory. Gran, shuffling to bed with her Dearfoam slippers and her chamomile tea.

My gaze shifted to the body.

Parent looked small and pitiful on the perforated steel. So alone. So dead.

Stab of sorrow.

I pushed it down.

LaManche gently twisted the dead woman’s head. Opened her jaw. Levered one shoulder. The wrinkled back and buttocks were purple with livor.

LaManche pushed a finger into the discolored flesh. The pressure point did not blanch.

LaManche allowed the body to resettle onto its back, then lifted a lifeless hand. Paper-thin peelings were loosening from the underlying dermis.

“Lividity is fixed. Rigor mortis has come and gone. Skin slippage has barely begun.”

As LaManche jotted his observations, my eyes roamed the geography of Parent’s corpse.

The woman’s muscles were withered, her hair gray, her skin pale to the point of translucence. Her shriveled breasts lay limp on her bony chest. Her belly was going green.

“How long do you think she’s been dead?” I asked.

“I see no marbling, no bloating, only minimal putrefaction. The house was warm, but not excessively hot. I will of course check her stomach contents and eye fluids, but at this point I’d say forty-eight to seventy-two hours.”

Another stab of pain.

I had blown this woman off on Wednesday. She had phoned me again on Thursday. LaManche’s estimate placed her death on Friday or Saturday.

I noticed a thin white line on her abdomen.

“Looks like she’s had some sort of surgery.”

LaManche was already sketching the scar onto a diagram.

My eyes moved to Parent’s face.

Both eyes were half open and covered with dark bands.

In death, the eyelid muscles relax, exposing the corneas, and allowing the epithelial tissue to dry. Tache noir sclerotique. Normal. But the change gave Parent the macabre look of yesterday’s roadkill.

I leaned in and inspected Parent’s teeth. Though worn, they were clean and only moderately discolored. The gums showed little swelling or resorption. Dental hygiene had been good.

I was straightening when my eye fell on something lodged between the right lateral incisor and canine. I drew closer.

Something was definitely there.

Digging a handheld lens from a drawer, I returned to the table.

Under magnification, details were clearer.

“Dr. LaManche,” I said. “Take a look at this.”

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